True stories from the RJ files

This happens every so often, because I share a name with a famous long-dead bluesman.

I went to the music shop Saturday to pick up my Fender Stratocaster, which was in for a new set of strings (I can’t begin to change them; I tried once and almost did irreparable damage to my vintage axe, which I’m not worthy to play anyway). The young axemeister who had done the job was in the back, so the guy behind the counter hollered, “Hey, Patrick. Robert Johnson is here!”

This got the attention of the other customers in the store. “Do you play blues?,” asked a grayhaired, graybearded guy in a motorcycle jacket.

“Only a little,” I replied. “I’m not very good, because I still have my soul.”

(A footnote: Getting the name was a complete coincidence, by the way. My parents’ musical tastes trended more toward Broadway cast albums, Herb Alpert, the Limeliters and Los Indios Trabajaros, not blues. But since my dad was a Bob, I vowed to go by Robert. It wasn’t until I began reading ’60s British guitar gods praising my namesake in the pages of Rolling Stone magazine that I realized my name wasn’t as nondescript as I thought.)